CHAPTER XVII

Huggins a psychologist—How he put it over on the Pirates in the world series—Baseball superstitions—McGraw turns one to advantage and wins an important series—College men in baseball—What they have contributed to the game—Ball players who make good outside of baseball—Zane Grey once a professional—Billy Sunday and Governor Tener.

The 1927 world series proved that baseball men don’t come any smarter than Miller Huggins, manager of the Yankees. Hug pulled three things in that series that stood out like the warts on a pickle.

The first one happened the day before the series opened. We were to work out in the Pirate Park, and the Pirates had their workout just before we took the field. We came out from the club house. Most of the Pirates had dressed and were sitting in the stands to watch us go through our practice.

Hug spotted them at once. He called Pennock and Shawkey over.

“Listen,” he said. “Those fellows are out here to watch us so we’ll show them something. You two fellows will pitch hitting practice. When you go in there lay that ball right down the middle. Don’t put anything on it. Let’s show those fellows some real hitting!”

Combs was the first man up. He plunked the first pitch into the center field stands. Koenig swung twice, bouncing one ball off the right field wall, and the other off the left field barrier.

Then I came up. Bob laid them right down the middle, with just enough speed to make them perfect. The first ball I hit over the roof of the right field grandstand. I put another one into the lower tier. Then I got hold of one and laid it in the center field bleachers.

I was about to quit but Huggins walked over past me.

“Hit a couple more Babe,” he whispered. “We’ve got them talking to themselves.”

I hit two more long ones and gave way to Gehrig. Lou broke the fence with three swings.

The Pirates were flabbergasted. A friend of mine—one of the newspaper men who was in the stands—heard them talking.

“Boy, did you ever see such hitting?” Pie Traynor said. “They’re even better than they’re advertised!”

The upshot was that the Pirates left the park that afternoon half licked before the series ever opened. They came out there to see if we hit as hard as everybody claimed, and smart little Hug spiked them in the first ten minutes.

Hug’s second smart move came after Hoyt had won the first game. Everyone expected him to start Shocker or Pennock. He crossed them up.

“We’ll start Pipgras” he announced in the clubhouse. “The fact that we think so little of Pittsburgh as to start a green kid, will get their goats. We’ve got ’em guessing now about our hitting. Putting in a kid pitcher against them will just about settle things. George goes in that second game—and if he gets away with it, we’ve got ’em. The series will be over in four games!”

You know the history of that series. Pipgras not only started but he had the Pirates under his thumb from start to finish. He won easily. The next day Pennock took them over the jumps—and that was a crowning insult too. For most of the wise guys had said that Pennock wouldn’t even start since the Pirates were death on left-handers. Hug’s wisest move, however, came in the final game.

It was the ninth inning, the score was tied, and we were going to bat for the last time. Combs singled and Koenig was safe when Traynor failed to come in for his bunt in time. I got a base on balls. Bases full. Nobody down. It looked as though the old series was in the bag.

Lou Gehrig came up. Lou was overanxious to hit—and John Miljus as wise and cool as pitchers come, worked carefully. Gehrig fanned. Meusel was up.

The boys on the bench were nutty.

“Put on the squeeze play,” they urged Hug. “We’ve got to get Combs home. Let’s try the squeeze!”

Hug grinned.

“Nothing doing,” he said. “Listen to me. That fellow out there (Miljus) is trying too hard. He’s putting too much on that ball. If someone doesn’t hit he’ll wild pitch sure. We can’t miss. A hit or a wild pitch!” Meusel fanned and then—well it’s an old story now.

With Lazzeri up Miljus cut one loose that was out of Gooch’s reach. The ball swept past him and rolled to the backstop. Earl Combs, perched and ready to go at third, came galloping home with the run that won the game and the world series.

Miller Huggins had called the turn!

“Got to hand it to you Hug,” Pat Collins piped up, “That’s calling ’em better than I ever saw. You’re a wizard!” Huggins grinned.

“Wizard, nothing,” he said, “That’s just baseball. It was bound to happen and I’ve been around long enough that I’ve learned to look for that sort of thing.”

It just goes to show how a real manager takes advantage of every little thing to aid his team. Fellows like McGraw and Huggins, eat and sleep and drink baseball. It’s their very life—and the years give them a knowledge that can’t be beat.

I don’t know whether people realize it or not, but most ball players are superstitious. McGraw once capitalized superstition to win a tough series from the Cubs. To understand the story you must understand that one of the general superstitions of baseball is that empty barrels mean basehits. A load of empty barrels is one of the best signs a baseball players ever sees, and even a cross eyed umpire or a black cat can’t jinx him after that.

At the time the Giants had been in a terrible hitting slump. They were worried about it. They switched caps, they mixed the bats, they carried rabbits’ feet. Nothing seemed to help. But one afternoon two or three of the boys came in the clubhouse grinning.

“Just saw a load of empty barrels,” they said, “today the old slump ends.”

That afternoon these fellows, inspired with new confidence, started hitting again. The next afternoon two or three more of the boys saw the barrels and the next day still others. For a week truck loads of barrels kept going past the clubhouse, and the boys all started hitting.

Which should be the end of the story. But it isn’t.

A few days after the incident a big burly fellow in overalls came to the clubhouse and asked for McGraw. He was told that McGraw was out.

“Well I want my money,” he grumbled. “I’ve been driving past this place with a load of barrels every day for a week, and I haven’t had a cent of pay yet. I want my money!”

The boys naturally were wised up. Old Mac had hired a teamster to drive past with those barrels just to give the boys confidence and bring them out of their slump. He had fought superstition with superstition and won. That’s smart managing.

One of the most famous superstitions in baseball is Eddie Collins and his chewing gum. For years, ever since he broke into the league I guess, Eddie has carried a wad of chewing gum on the button of his cap. And when he’s at bat, the minute the pitcher gets two strikes on him, you’ll see him step out of the box, take the chewing gum from his cap and start chewing it. He’s done it so long now that it has become a habit. It’s the only time he ever chews gum. And when he has finished his turn at bat, whether it’s a hit or a putout, back on his cap goes the chewing gum. And it stays there until some other occasion arises when he has two strikes on him.

Urban Shocker believes that throwing a hat on a bed is bad luck. He used to room with Tommy Thomas, the kid pitcher, and one night Tommy came into the room, and threw his hat on the bed. Shocker was scheduled to pitch next day. And he was furious. The things he said to Tommy wouldn’t look good, even if printed in Yiddish. It’s a wonder Tommy came out alive. And it’s a certain cinch he has never thrown his hat on the bed since then. The following afternoon Shocker pitched a beautiful game but lost by one run.

Joe Dugan has a queer superstition too. Joe will never throw the ball back to the pitcher. If you watch him in infield practice you’ll see him throw to the plate, or second or first, time after time. But never to the pitcher. Once or twice the boys have tried to make him do it. Every time Joe would shoot the ball to a baseman, they’d throw it right back at him. Finally, seeing what was up, he delivered the ball into the pitcher’s hands. But did he throw it? He did not. He simply walked across the diamond and handed it to him, then walked back to his post.

However the boys aren’t as superstitious now as they used to be. A lot of the old-timers say it’s because there are so many more college men in baseball now than there were a few years ago. Personally I don’t believe that. The college players we get are just as superstitious in their own way, as the rough-necks who never attended college.

But college men have had an influence on baseball. And a good one. They’ve raised the game and the players. They’ve been responsible for cutting out a lot of the old-time rough stuff. And they’ve made baseball a real business in which men get good salaries and save it. In the old days when a baseball player finished his career he usually was down and out.

The money he earned he spent as fast as it came. Once he was through he was dependent on his friends and acquaintances for a job and a living. The college fellows have changed all that. They came into the league with a pretty good idea of what it was all about. They saved their money. And the other fellows followed their example.

There have been some great college men in baseball. Fellows like Mathewson and Eddie Collins and Jack Combs were the pioneers. Today there isn’t a team in either league that hasn’t several college men on its roster, and clubs are watching the colleges more and more for likely looking players.

The Yankees have Combs, Thomas, Gehrig, Gazella, Hanson and Dugan—all college men. Cy Williams is a college man. So is Ted Lyons. Gordon Cochrane, Muddy Ruel, Eddie Farrell, Max Carey, Jigger Statz, Hank DeBerry, Ernie Wingard, Ownie Carroll, Joe Sewell, Luke Sewell, Eppa Rixey, Art Nehf, Travis Jackson, Gink Hendrick, Doc Gautreau, Vic Aldridge, Riggs Stephenson, Cliff Heathcote, Ray Blades—all of these are college men. And they’re only a few of the scores who have gone into big league baseball and have made good.

Some people argue that college men are better ball players than the others. I don’t believe that. But I do believe that the boy who has gone through college is quicker to learn inside baseball. He’s more willing to learn too. The sandlotter, a lot of times, is a stubborn cuss who doesn’t like instruction. The average college fellow realizes that he doesn’t know it all and is willing to take advice from the players who have been around longer than he has.

But regardless of that, the other thing still goes. College men have been a mighty good influence in big league baseball and always will be. They bring wider training into the game. Muddy Ruel, for instance, is a lawyer who practices his profession in the off season. Bluege of the Senators is a certified public account. Art Nehf is an engineer, Eddie Farrell is a dentist. And by their example they prove to other ballplayers that there’s something in life after the baseball career is over.

Of the present crop of big leaguers, there will be very few who won’t be fairly independent when they have finished their career. Of course we can’t all be Ty Cobbs. Ty quit the game with a million dollars—and that’s more money than most professional athletes will ever see. But let me make this prediction.

In the years to come you won’t see many former ballplayers walking the streets. They’ll have enough to live on—and comfortably. During their playing days they meet not only other ballplayers, but they come in contact with the business world as well. Many a poor country kid has found through baseball, a contact and a knowledge of the world that he never even knew existed.

Take the average country kid rookie who goes south in the Spring. He’s green. He’s unaccustomed to city life. He is embarrassed in the hotel dining room. But baseball is a great teacher. And after two or three seasons of play he’s a polished product, capable of holding his own in most any company. And that isn’t bunk. It actually happens.

A lot of fellows who started in as professional ballplayers have made good in other lines when their careers as ballplayers ended. Zane Grey, the novelist who writes so many western stories, was once a professional ballplayer. He wasn’t a big leaguer—but he played the outfield for a Western League club for several seasons. He played on a club which Ed Barrow, now business manager of the Yankees, managed.

Billy Sunday, the great evangelist, also was a ballplayer. Billy played with the old White Sox back in the barroom days, and he’s still quite a fan. I’ve talked to him several times and on several occasions he has been around to see us in training camp. And he likes baseball as much as ever. Lots of times I’ve seen him peel off his coat and vest, and get out there and hit fungoes to the boys for an hour at a time. And have a great time doing it.

Ex-Governor Tener of Pennsylvania, is an ex-pitcher. And a real fan. In baseball we have plenty of trouble with the umpires from time to time, but when all is said and done, they’re a pretty fine outfit. Square shooters, all of them, honest and fearless and ready to fight for their decisions if necessary.

A lot of those umpires know more baseball than the players. Take a fellow like Tommy Connolly for instance. Tommy has been umpiring big league ball games for more than 35 years. He was in the National League for a long time, and he has been an American League umpire ever since the league was organized. Tommy was the last umpire to put me out of a ballgame. And that was way back in June 1922 when I threw dirt at him after he had called me out at second. I’ve learned my lesson now. I’ve found out that umpires are on the square, and that they want to give players all of the best of it if possible. It took a long time for me to learn—but rule number one in my book reads “Don’t fight with umpires. It’s bad business!”